Upsetting the Balance

Szilard gave him a surprised look. The physicist owned a sense of humor, a rather dry, puckish one, but seemed surprised to find anything similar lurking in the soul of a military man. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “The atomic piles we have in mind for that facility are truly elegant, and will make these seem like clumsy makeshifts. The Columbia has enough cooling flow to let them be enormously more efficient.”

“Getting equipment and people to Hanford is going to be complicated,” Groves said. “Getting anything anywhere is complicated these days. That’s what having aliens occupying half the country will do to you.”

“If we do not establish additional facilities, our production rate for plutonium here will remain cruelly low,” Szilard said.

“I know,” Groves answered. So many things the United States had to do if it was going to win the war. So many things, also, the United States couldn’t do. And if the United States couldn’t do the things it had to do… Groves was an excellent logician. He wished he weren’t, because he hated the conclusion to which logic led him.

David Goldfarb drew himself to attention as Fred Hipple walked by, which meant he looked down on the crown of the diminutive group captain’s service cap. “Permission to speak to you a moment, sir?”

Hipple stopped, nodded. “What is it, Goldfarb?”

The rumble of artillery was plainly audible in the moment Goldfarb used to gather his thoughts. The Lizards’ northern perimeter was only a few miles away. Up till now, it had been a defensive perimeter; their main effort went into the southward push toward London. That didn’t mean the British were attacking it with any less ferocity, though.

Goldfarb said, “Sir, I’d like your endorsement on a request to transfer from this unit to one where I can get into combat.”

“I thought that might be what you would say.” Hipple rubbed at the thin line of his mustache. “Your spirit does you credit. However, I shall not endorse any such request. On the contrary. As long as this research team exists, I shall bend every effort toward maintaining it at full strength.” He scratched at his mustache again. “You are not the first man to ask this of me.”

“I didn’t think I would be, sir, but this is the first chance I’ve had to speak to you in any sort of privacy,” Goldfarb said. Being one of the other ranks, he didn’t share quarters with Hipple, as did the officers on the jet propulsion and radar research team. Stealing this moment outside the Nissen hut where they all worked wasn’t the same thing-although the roar of cannon and the cloud of dust and smoke that obscured the southern horizon lent his words urgency.

“Yes, yes, I understand all that. Quite.” Hipple looked uncomfortable. “I might add that my own request to return to combat duty was also rejected, and I must admit I found the reasons for its rejection compelling enough to apply them myself.” He shifted from foot to foot, a startling gesture from such a usually dapper little man.

“What are those reasons, sir?” Goldfarb gestured violently. “With the country invaded, seems to me we need every man who can carry a rifle to do just that.”

Hipple’s smile was rueful. “Exactly what I said, though I believe I used the phrase ‘climb into a cockpit’ instead. I was told, quite pointedly, that this was penny wise and pound foolish, that we have a sufficiency of fighting men who are only that and nothing more, but that technical progress had to continue lest in winning this fight we sow the seeds of losing the next one, and that-you will forgive me, I trust, for quoting the words of the Air Vice Marshal-I was to bloody well stay here till we were either evacuated or bloody well overrun.”

“Yes, sir,” Goldfarb said. Then, greatly daring, he added, “But sir, if we lose this fight, can we make another?”

“A cogent point,” Hipple admitted. “If by ‘we’ you mean the British Isles, I daresay the answer is no. But if you mean by it mankind as a whole, I believe the answer to be yes. And if we are evacuated, I believe we shan’t go into the Welsh mountains or up into Scotland or across the Irish Sea to Belfast. My guess is that they may send us across to Norway, and from there to join forces with the Germans-no, I don’t care for that, and I see from your face that you don’t, either, but neither of our opinions has anything to do with anything. More likely, though, we’d sail across the Atlantic and set up shop in Canada or the United States. Meanwhile, we soldier on here. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Goldfarb repeated. Hipple nodded as if everything were settled and went on his way. Sighing, Goldfarb walked into the Nissen hut.

Basil Roundbush was in there, poring over a blueprint with a singular lack of enthusiasm. He looked up, saw Goldfarb’s hangdog expression, and recognized it for what it was. “The Old Man wouldn’t let you go fight either, eh?”